


Light breaks where no sun shines

by fairywearsbootz



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywearsbootz/pseuds/fairywearsbootz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the end of the movie Charles and Erik meet, part ways and meet again, as Charles struggles to come to terms with his decisions, and the way they shape his future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light breaks where no sun shines

**Author's Note:**

> This movie made me dig out my old copy of "Superheroes and Philosophy", which got me thinking about the whole mutant-vs-human thing and Charles' and Erik's stances in it, which lead to this.
> 
> Title taken from the [poem of the same title](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15380) by Dylan Thomas. First draft beta'd by the wonderful [azewewish](http://azewewish.livejournal.com/). All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Originally posted to [LJ](http://fairywearsbootz.livejournal.com/7861.html) on 09-11-2011.

He's already been out of the hospital for a week when they send the remnants of his uniform.

For its size the box is weirdly light as he balances it on his knees, digs through an ocean of opaque silk paper until he reaches rough leather. He runs his hands over the frayed edges where they'd cut the cloth off him in the ER. Grains of sand cling to his palms, the faint scent of salt mingling with that of the leather.

One patch is particularly stiff, and then his fingers hit a small hole, its edges singed.

_Erik's arm catches him before he can hit the ground, his hand hovers over Charles' back and then the pain comes back, short and vicious, as he can feel the bullet slide out of his flesh–_

He closes the box, hides it in the deepest corner of his closet, right next to the chess board.

*

 _“Those boys are always running around, always breaking things, and who has to clean up after them? I know you haven't got many people here, Señor Xavier, but it's still a big house, a lot of work–_ ”

“I'm really sorry, can you tell her that? I really didn't mean to break it! She just scared me, coming up from nowhere with that feather-thing–“

Charles nods with a strained smile. Before him the housekeeper, Señora Esteban, is gesturing wildly, while Sean is looking up at him from where he's picking the shards of an antique vase out of the carpet. Their words flood around him, a jumbled mixture of English and Spanish; a flock of paper birds, the fluttering edges of their wings cutting through his concentration as he strains to sort through words and thoughts, Sean's and hers, to follow the Spanish to its root in her mind while leaving private thoughts untouched.

“ _If only Señora Raven was still here,_ ” Señora Esteban says, or maybe thinks. Or maybe it’s his own thoughts, thrown back to him through the filter of her mind – it doesn't matter, because suddenly it's there. The image of Raven as he'd last seen her – at the beach, red hair gleaming in the Caribbean sun, next to Erik with their hands clasped tight. The yellow of her eyes, and the dark shadows underneath the helmet from where Erik had been watching him, and longing hits him hard, eats away at his edges, his memories erecting an invisible wall between him and the two people in front of him now arguing with each other.

If he'd nudge them a little bit, just enough to make them calm down, he's sure they wouldn't even notice. Instant peace and quiet instead of the storm raging around him.

He pushes the thought back, locks it carefully in the back of his mind. Tightens his grip on the armrest of his chair, listens. Smiles until Señora Esteban lets out one last huff of exasperation and sweeps out of the room, Sean slinking out the other door with an apologetic look. Then he slowly retreats to his study, where he spends the rest of the afternoon staring at his books without absorbing a single word. Outside the sun is shining, flowers are blossoming and birds are singing their joyous little tunes.

He's sick to death of the happiness of it all.

*

The hearing had been appointed for 9 a.m., but when Charles and Alex arrive half an hour early, the Senate building's already stuffed with people, their murmurs filling the room, floating up to the stucco adorned ceiling high above them. Eventually, they find a place in the back, Charles' wheelchair placed at the end of a row of seats right next to one of the many armed guards Alex keeps eying with suspicious defiance.

“I call the hearing to order,” the chairman's voice rises over the noise of the crowd. When the last whisper has faded, he sits back down. “Thank you. The purpose of today's hearing is an oversight meeting on the recent appearance of persons with DNA deviating from the normal human genome, so-called 'mutants'. We have a number of witnesses who I hope can shed light on the matter. Also we are fortunate to welcome a number of the board's members, as well as some guests...“

Charles tunes out as soon as the introductions start, lets his mind wander, skim over the emotions of the board members up front. Catches a stray thought here and there, a lot of them curious, some nervous, a few just plain bored. It's only been months since sightings of mutants have become a regular occurrence in the news, but already there's hatred – deep, dark pockets of it that his mental touch shrinks back from, circumnavigates carefully as to determine their scope. Prods, hesitantly, to gauge the strength of their emotions, to illuminate their reasons...

One of the senators rubs his temple with a frown as he shuffles through his papers. Charles retreats into the thoughts of the audience in an instant. Further, further back, when suddenly, somewhere on the far left–

Thoughts like fire, raging, twisting, barely contained and bright, oh so bright. Charles sits up straight, cranes his head to look over the sea of strange faces around him.

“Take some notes for me, will you,” he whispers to Alex. Doesn't wait for the boy's confused nod, but wheels himself towards the door, wills his expression to remain calm, calm, calm against the wild flutter in his chest.

*

He doesn't have to wait long until the doors open again and Erik steps out into the dim lobby. He's wearing civilian clothes, one of the turtlenecks Charles remembers so well, a light coat folded over one arm.

“Charles.” With a nod Erik slides onto a narrow wooden bench next to him. There's a few feet of distance between them, and still, suddenly the lobby feels small despite its grandeur, all the space taken up by Erik's proximity.

“Erik.” Charles tastes the name on his tongue, familiar despite all this time. “I didn't expect you to be here,” he continues lightly. “Surely your face is on top of a most wanted-list somewhere?”

“I couldn't miss this,” Erik says. “In a couple of decades, when we talk about the mutant question, this place, this here is where it will all have started. History is being made behind these doors right now. Our history.”

Charles watches him out of the corners of his eyes, tries to read the past months from his face. There are new lines around his eyes, his lips, but the set of his shoulders is more relaxed than Charles remembers ever seeing him.

“It's only a first hearing,” he offers.

Erik raises an eyebrow. “Which could ruin everything right from the start, as you perfectly know yourself.”

He leans forward. “Aren't you tempted to give it just a little push into the right direction?” There's no challenge in his gaze, no fight, just honest curiosity. “To sow just a couple of the right ideas in those suit-wearing, self-righteous humans to tip the scale in our favor?”

“No,” Charles lies. Stares at his hands, blue veins snaking up from his wrists into the palm, his blood slowly pulsing against pale skin.

“Yes,” he admits. “But it wouldn't do us as much good as you seem to think. They'd figure it out soon.”

“Maybe.” Erik shrugs. “But I like to think by then it'd be too late. Still it's nice to hear you aren't such a saint all the time.” He smiles, gracefully rises from his seat. “Goodbye, Charles.”

And suddenly Charles realizes he isn't ready yet, not for this conversation to be over, not for Erik to leave, _again_ , not at all, and before his brain can catch up his hand has reached out, has grabbed the waistband of Erik's pants, his fingers entangled in cotton and linen against solid flesh. Erik's leather belt's cool against his palm, the sharp jut of his hipbone softened by muscles and skin. The bone underneath grates against his knuckles as he feels Erik still under his touch.

“Wait,” Charles says. “Please, wait.”

Erik's eyes widen, green dimmed to gray in the marble shadows of the hall. The heat of his body seeps through the thin cloth of his slacks, warms Charles' skin, makes his blood run easier through his veins.

“My friend–“ he starts, but Erik cuts him off, weariness heavy in his voice.

“Am I still?”

“How could you not be?” Charles tightens his grip. “You know–“ He stops. Whatever words he'd choose to say, they both already know all the answers Erik would give, and that there's not one among them Charles would want to hear.

A door slams in the corridor to their right and Erik's head flies up. The echo of footsteps, fading away as the person walks away from them. Erik turns back to Charles, his expression apologetic.

“I really need to leave now, Charles.” Gently he pries Charles' fingers away. “Soon everyone will come out of the court room, and as you correctly stated, my face is on too many wanted lists for me to be seen here.” He looks at Charles, their hands still entangled. “You know where to find me if you ever change your mind.”

For a moment, Erik's fingers are still pressed against Charles' palm, Erik's pulse still beats against his, strong, almost painfully clear, Erik, _here_ , with him.

Then he's gone.

Charles sits in the shadow of the lobby, listening after the echo of Erik's footsteps, until the doors open and the chattering of people fills the empty space beside him.

*

“I don't fucking believe what I'm seeing.”

“Sean, language,” Charles says absently, but really, he's thinking the same thing.

In front of them, the news is playing on the TV. A street in New York, the front of what according to a hectic voice is the county prison, and a pandemonium that seems lifted straight out of Charles' darkest dreams.

The camera moves over the scene in wide sweeps, catches little black and white figures running in all directions, yelling, pointing, trying to dodge cars that move through the air seemingly of their own accord. Policemen are everywhere, firing with an air of panicked determination. And above everything, floating several feet in mid-air, deflecting bullets like confetti – Erik.

“But that's Magneto,” Sean continues, “breaking into a prison? What the hell is he doing there?”

“Maybe he wants to free those mutants they've arrested at the sit-in last week,” Alex offers, arms crossed. “Sounds like something he'd do.”

Another car soars high up, comes crashing down only a few feet away from the wildly swaying camera. Suddenly it zooms in, catches on Erik's figure. His cape's flowing in waves around his body, his helmet hiding his face except for his eyes, blazing with cold, controlled fire even through the grainy black and white of the TV.

“Just coming in, apparently a rogue mutant organization called 'The Brotherhood of Mutants' is taking responsibility for the attack–,” a reporter yells into his microphone, cowering behind a battered mailbox.

“What does that mean? I mean, for mutants?” Sean's gaze flits around the room, stops on Charles. “People aren't going to believe we're all like him, are they?”

“Whatever, man,” Alex huffs, “what if they believe we're all dressing like him?”

Charles shrugs helplessly, his eyes glued to the screen. He knows, he should be worrying about this, or feel at least hurt in the face of this new set-back of his friendship with Erik. But all he can think as he watches Erik wreak havoc on an entire police corps, prisoners gathering under his guard, is how utterly made for this he is; how glorious in the uninhibited display of his extraordinary powers.

*

After New York, Charles starts working with the government again.

“Didn't you use to work with Erik Lehnsherr, or what does he call himself now, Magneto?” Warner, the man appointed his liaison-officer, asks as he sorts through his file, a frown on his long face, his nose quivering as he squints at the papers.

Charles lays his hands on his thighs, watches the cloth fold under his fingers. “We parted ways,” he says. “It turned out there were some irreconcilable differences between our approaches to the human-mutant agenda.”

“Differences, huh.” Warner closes the file. “Well, happens to the best of us.”

 _As if you have any right comparing yourself to him_ , Charles thinks fiercely. He's surprised himself by the force of his thought, by the urge to reach into Warner's mind and wipe those smug words off his brain.

*

Rain spatters against the windows of the diner, coats them with an oscillating film of blinding gray and white.

“Thank you, my dear,” Charles says as the waitress refills his coffee. She nods, a shy smile crossing her face. He watches her as she moves through the room, absently stirs his coffee. At the first sip, he almost regrets he didn't opt to return to the mansion, with its ample supply of excellent tea, but he needs some time on his own to sort out his thoughts.

He's torn out of his reverie though when a glass crashes to the floor, shatters with a clear-cut sound.

“Fuck, can't you see where you're going?” A guy dressed in flannel and a trucker's cap glares at the waitress. A dark puddle of soda is rapidly spreading between them.

The girl sinks to her knees, picks up shards with quick fingers. “I'm sorry, Sir, I'll get it cleaned–“

“Hey,” the young man at the next table interrupts her, “what the fuck is wrong with her hair?”

The girl pales, both hands flying up to her auburn bun. Strands of it have come loose and are snaking around her face in nervous, fitful motions.

“Goddamn muties,” the first man hisses, his eyes narrowing. Balls his fist, and–

_No._

–kneels down next to the girl, considerably less elegant than her, and starts picking up pieces of glass. “Here, sweetheart,” he says, a smile on his face, “lemme help you with that.”

“Yeah.” The second guy joins them as well, shakes his head ruefully. “Curt here really shoulda been more careful, just running smack into you.”

The girl slowly lowers her hands, her eyes flitting between them. “Tha– Thank you?” she stutters.

With almost identical groans the men stand up. “No worries, darling,” the first one says, gives her a light clap on the shoulder. She flinches, her expression flickering from confused to scared to puzzled as he gives her a sheepish smile. “Really was my fault.”

Opposite the room Charles lets his fingers sink from his temple. A smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth and he hides it behind his cup.

*

“Today we're going to look into a subject of utmost importance to all of us who we call ourselves gifted.” With a meaningful look at his students, Charles pulls out his copy of Plato's _Republic_. “Ethics.”

Quite predictably Alex lets out a groan while Sean just frowns. Hank averts his gaze, one corner of his mouth drawn upwards in a wry smile.

– _another approach to taming the Beast, I suppose. Well, I understand_ –

– _going on a rampage through N. Y. and now I have to_ –

– _hope there's something good for dinner to make up for this crap_ –

His students' thoughts flood through the room, surging against the walls of his control with all their teenage intensity, and Charles has to bite his lip to stop the laughter bubbling up in his chest, acid-like.

Plato, Kant, Kierkegaard. He runs a hand over the pile of books, feels the indentations of the letters on their linen backs. All the great minds of the past gathered under his palm to guide them, to pull them back from the slope Erik has slid down so readily.

The truth is, he is the one who needs this. He's the one who needs to know – why he is doing all this, why he’s walking the path he’s chosen.

Why he should be just and good, and what “good” is supposed to be anyways.

*

On his next visit to Langley, the first sign he gets that anything's out of the ordinary is when they ask to him to switch wheelchairs.

“For you own safety, Sir.” The soldier escorting him doesn't even bat an eyelash, stares at a point left of Charles' frown. He's careful, though, when he lifts Charles over, asks him if he's comfortable while his companion fiddles nervously with the safety of his shiny new M16.

Charles runs his hands over the arm rests, hesitantly leans back into leather, creaking-new. The chair's too smooth, its edges too sharp. When the soldier starts pushing him down another corridor, the whirring of the wheels sounds too high. And then it hits him.

“Plastic,” he says, too surprised to keep his voice in check. The worry of the two young men at his back lights up like matches, burning phosphorus bright, throwing shadows of premonition in his gut.

They turn a corner and suddenly the tunnel's plastic as well, its walls whispering, shifting sheaves of dirty-opaque tarps. Charles' fingers lay clenched in his lap, the tips tingling with the urge to reach out to the glossy surface, brush them and see them disappear into the smoke of a bad dream. In front of him the corridor widens into a brightly-lit circular room. He doesn't want to know what he'll find there.

A small group of military personnel stands at the opposite wall, Warner in the middle. At Charles' arrival they look up almost simultaneously, a pack of frowns and balding heads.

Warner ambles over, a jovial grin on his face. “Mr. Xavier!” he says. “So glad you could come on such short notice.”

Charles cuts him off with an impatient gesture. “What's going on? Why did you need me to come so urgently?“

Warner gives a wink and a door opens on the other side of the hall. Two soldiers step out of the dark, dragging a third man between them. He's wearing gray clothes, dirtied and torn. His hair has grown longer, matted and disheveled, strands falling into his face as they drop him unceremoniously on the barren plastic floor. There are bruises on his cheekbone, angry red cuts on his hands, his wrists, the few inches of skin Charles can make out in the distance.

 _How?_ he thinks, numbed. From somewhere far away words drift to his ears – he dimly registers the voice as Warner's. _How were they able to keep this from me?_

The man turns on his side, pushes himself onto his elbows, a slow, laborious movement that makes Charles' bones ache. His lips, chapped and torn, move silently.

_Charles._

“Erik,” he says. The sound of his own voice, the working of his jaw, his muscles, tear him out of his stupor, catapult him back into reality. Warner is still standing next to him, a slightly worried look on his face.

“Yes, as I said, Erik Lehnsherr,” he says. “We got him in a raid last month but he's proven pretty stubborn. We've had to keep him under heavy sedation, haven't been able to get anything useful out of him.” He opens his hands in a soothing gesture. “Hey, unaccountable differences, right? We're all on the same side here, the good guys working together towards their common goal.”

Charles's eyes stay glued on Erik's motionless figure. A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he makes his decision.

“There's nothing I have in common with you,” he says calmly, turns towards Warner.

The other man's head snaps around. Frantically he motions to the soldiers behind Charles who jerk up their guns and–

Charles raises his hand and everything stops.

The generals in the corner, the soldiers, Warner, all freeze as Charles' mind sweeps their will away in the blink of an eye. Only Erik is still moving, his hands roaming aimlessly over the plastic floor.

 _You_. One of the soldiers steps next to Charles. _Tie them up, all expect him_ , he points to the soldier that had lifted him into the plastic wheelchair, _then go home. Forget_.

The man moves with jerky, curt movements.

Charles turns to the soldier he's singled out.

 _You will carry him_.

The soldier nods. His blue eyes dull, his expression blank, he walks over to Erik, crouches down and hefts him up in a fireman carriage. When he steps next to Charles Erik's lost consciousness again, a limp puppet in his grip. Carefully Charles raises his hand to Erik's neck. His fingers are shaking as he feels Erik's pulse. Weak, but steady. A tremor racks through his body, makes him shiver despite his sweater. _Not yet_ , he tells himself, tightens his grip on all the minds around him. _Not yet_.

The plastic chair is more difficult to maneuver than his own but he wheels himself out of the room, through the white corridor, the soldier with his unconscious cargo always a step behind him. The pressure on his mind is like a leaden band tightening with each foot of distance he puts between them and the people in the room, with each new mind added as they pass check-points and offices.

And then they're outside, cold air against his sweat-soaked skin. The soldier helps Charles' driver to lay Erik over the backseat of the car. Charles watches his motionless figure in the back mirror, watches him grow smaller and smaller as the put yard after yard between themselves and the building. Only when the soldier's gone completely does Charles let go, lets the pressure behind his temples wash him away into merciful darkness.

*

The first light of dawn has only started to sneak into the little chamber, outlining the edges of furniture, of Charles' himself, with a soft gray halo, when Erik finally stirs.

Blankets shift with a dry rustle. Fingers twitch, pressing into the thin mattress. His head turns, his face scrunching up as the bruises on his cheekbone are pressed into the pillow.

Slowly he opens his eyes. They are clear, all traces of the drugs gone, and green, so very green, and they're looking at Charles.

For a long moment, silence hangs between them, flutters in the rays of sunlight, in the shadows around Erik's face.

“If I stayed with you, if I helped you,” Charles says, carefully measuring out each of his words, “would you promise me not to kill anyone?”

Erik stares at him, the new lines on his face deep even in the dim light. His hand reaches out, touches Charles' tentatively. “Is this real?” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I thought I saw you, back there, in the cell, and later...” He stops, grips Charles wrist almost painfully tight. The muscles of his jaw twitch, his adam's apple working as he swallows.

“Yes.” A deep exhale. “Yes, I promise.”

Charles feels the corners of his lips turn upwards.

“You should sleep now.” He loosens Erik's grip, takes his hand in both of his. Warm and strong it lies between his palms.

_Sleep._

Erik closes his eyes. His head sinks back into the pillow, his breathing evens out.

Charles rubs his thumbs over skin, feels tendons, muscles, bones. Erik's living, breathing body, right next to him, the soft aura of his dreams an exhilarating presence against the edges of his consciousness.

*

“Where are we anyway?” Erik asks three days later. He's standing next to Charles on a rocky shore, dark green waves lapping up to charcoal-colored pebbles.

“Iceland.” Charles lets his gaze wander over the stormy sea, wonders how for them things always seem to end on beaches.

“Iceland?” Erik huffs out a quiet laugh. “You continue to amaze me.”

Charles smiles, digs his fingers deeper into his heavy coat. The wind comes up, cold and cutting, blowing Erik's hair up into an explosion of dark ginger.

“And now? Where do we go from here?” he asks.

With his eyes closed, Charles reaches out, to all the mutants awakening around them, rising, yearning for their guidance. Turns to Erik, the outline of his face a pale scar on the dark autumn sky.

“Wherever we need to go.”


End file.
